


I've Turned Into a Monster

by righteousgonewrong



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Gen, Mark of Cain, also angst, much angst, slightly graphic mentions of violence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-12-11
Updated: 2014-12-11
Packaged: 2018-03-01 00:00:02
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,212
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2752013
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/righteousgonewrong/pseuds/righteousgonewrong
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>A monster, a monster...</i>
  <br/><i>And it keeps getting </i>
  <b>stronger.</b>
</p>
<p>The effects of the Mark are building up, and denial can only hide so much. A drabble from Dean's point of view about how he reacts to the Mark acting up again, mostly around the time of episode 10.09 (The Things We Left Behind).</p>
<p></p><blockquote>
  <p>He twisted his fists into the covers with his hands clenched so tight they turned white and buried his face in his pillow to catch his tears and gasps before they could escape. Because the truth of the matter was that this all led up to one simple fact.<br/>Dean Winchester was a monster.</p>
</blockquote>
            </blockquote>





	I've Turned Into a Monster

He had tried so damn hard to pretend nothing was wrong. It was the Dean Winchester way, fake it 'till you make it, never let anyone else know just how bad it really is. Dean was the king of suffering in silence.

But he supposed the slow, painful transition from human--or somewhat human, whatever awkward in between state he was in now--to demon was hard to ignore.

It was the eating he noticed first. He and Sam had been pouring through the Men of Letters' books for a hunt, with a little research on the Mark of Cain on the side. At around midnight, Sam had turned to him and asked one simple question, just three small words that had started it all.

"Are you hungry?"

The question alone wasn't much. And Dean didn't treat it as much, brushing it off with a "nah, I'm good."

The next question was the one that shook him to his very core.

"Seriously? Dude, when's the last time you ate?"

Dean stopped. When had it been? It wasn't today, they'd been in the library most of the day. Yesterday they had been out on a hunt, and Dean had refused food from the diner they stopped at on the insistence that its "all organic" menu choices were far too healthy for him. He had made breakfast for him and Sam the day before, he was pretty sure he'd had a handful of bacon then.

The day before yesterday. Over two and a half days ago. He had gone two and a half days without so much as a bite of food.

That in and of itself wasn't unusual, he'd gone much longer when they were kids. No, the part that shook him was that he didn't want food. He wasn't hungry, he didn't even know if he could bring himself to eat for pleasure.

Just like when the Mark had started taking over last time.

He got over whatever hangups his body had against food quick enough, forcing burgers and nachos and whatever else he could get his hands on into his clearly malfunctioning stomach any chance he could get.

_See?_ he told himself as he ripped a bite off his sandwich. _You're fine. You're busy, that's all. Just ignore it. Keep eating. If you just ignore it and act normal it'll be fine._

That worked, at first. He spent the next few days with a meal or a snack in his hands almost constantly. For a while he even managed to convince himself that he would actually be okay, that he could just think away the effects of the Mark. That if he refused to acknowledge them they wouldn't be able to control him.             

But the other signs weren't so easy to ignore.

The next symptom to make an appearance was the nightmares. The first one was more of a flashback than a nightmare. A vivid retelling of all the crap he'd done under the Mark's influence, both as a demon and before. He woke up sweating and clutching his bedsheets, but that was nothing new. Bad memories always seemed to haunt them.

The second night was worse.

Where the first night told the past, the second night told the future. It felt almost like Purgatory had, everything both crisp and clear but dull and faded at the same time. He was kneeling alone in an empty room, hands clenched tightly into fists

No, that wasn't right. The room wasn't empty. There were other people there. Dean looked around, dazed, his muddled and tired subconscious slowly piecing together what they were looking at. 

Corpses. Dean bodies, human bodies, strewn across the room and covered in blood.

He was covered in blood, he noticed, hid hands lifting so he could get a better look. One of his hands was holding something, he noticed. A silver hunting knife, stained red with blood. The same blood that was splattered up his arms and across the front of his shirt. The same blood pouring from the surrounding bodies.

He had killed them.

He had killed them all.

And this was just the beginning.

He was lucky he didn't scream when he woke up, just a deep, strained gasp as he flailed around for something to hold, to ground him. His eyes darted down to his arms, relieved to find them completely devoid of blood. But in its place was the Mark of Cain, sitting there like a constant reminder of what was to come.

Looking back he wished he'd stayed asleep.

The next day was the worst. He kept up his new eating routine of devouring anything that would sit still long enough, smiling through a mouthful of french fries and making believe that he was actually eating them because he was hungry.

Then it happened. The dream came true.

He had tried to warn them. He'd felt it rising in him when they cornered him, and he knew that if he let it... But he couldn't. He was strong, and he would fight against this. For Cas, for Dad, for _Sam_.

He failed.

Sam found him kneeling in a pool of blood, surrounded by corpses he could only faintly remember killing.

"I didn't... I didn't mean to..."

But it didn't matter. Who cared what he meant to do? It only mattered that he had done it, and not for survival reasons like Sam tried to insist.

That night was the worst.

He hadn't thought anything could be worse than a nightmare that came true--and he had sat down on his bed terrified that he would see more horrifying images of things yet to come--but there was one thing that was far, far worse.

He couldn't sleep.

At first he wasn't surprised. Adrenaline and shock were still coursing through him, and his entire body was buzzing with the Mark's influence. But even after he'd drowned it down with a couple bottles of hard liquor and, he couldn't sleep. He couldn't even bring himself to want to sleep. His energy was staying steady at fully charged, as though...

As though he didn't need to sleep.

He tried drinking more, lying still with his eyes closed, listening to Pink Floyd, downing sleeping pills to the point where he was risking his own health... Nothing worked. No matter how hard he tried he couldn't even drum up a single yawn for good measure. He just sat there, awake, no stream of subconscious nightmares to swoop down and pull him from his thoughts. Thoughts that were slowly spiralling into despair.

He wanted to scream, to cry out, to curse. But Sam was soundly asleep in the other room--lucky--and the last thing he wanted to do was worry his little brother.

So instead he twisted his fists into the covers with his hands clenched so tight they were turning white and buried his face in his pillow to catch his tears and gasps before they could escape. Because the truth of the matter was that this all led up to one simple fact.

He didn't eat. He didn't sleep. That could only mean one thing. It meant the Mark of Cain was taking hold again. It meant he was no longer human.

Dean Winchester was a monster.


End file.
